When the final bell
rang I was ready. Waving my friends off, I
rushed through the library, grabbing several
volumes, and took off for home. I picked up
my younger sister and once at home settled
her at the kitchen table with her homework
and a snack. Then I shook out some
coins from the band-aid tin where we kept
household money and jumped on my bike. I
pedaled like crazy, and was soon on my way
back with fresh zucchini, tomatoes, and
onions.

As the fresh veggies I’d
purchased bubbled away on the stovetop, my
sister mentioned the aroma. “It makes the house
smell loved.” I smiled my
agreement, proud that I
could make the house smell good. As I
basted the broiled chicken legs and mashed
up some potatoes, I was relieved that
everything would be ready on time.

My scribbled outline
lay on the far end of the table flanked by
open books; I stopped to jot a few notes as
I set the table. Just as the six o’clock
whistle blew I heard Dad’s car door slam. I
put my pen aside, poured a tall glass of
iced tea, and set it at his place. Then I
poured one for my sister, and took a long
gulp from the glass I’d poured for myself.
I’d been on a flat run from the time school
let out, and the cool tang felt good in my
mouth. The kitchen was steamy from cooking
and dinner's fragrance had set our stomachs to
growling quite a while ago. We were hungry
and glad Dad was on time.

The door swung open.
Dad was often tired from the nasty commute,
but when he arrived home he always had a hug
for “his girls”, and we rushed over to get
them. “Is dinner ready? I have to be on my
way by 6:30. ” Dad was in a hurry, so I
scrambled.

“Oh, it’s ready! Great, let’s
eat.”

I felt warm with
pride. Wow, everything was hot at once! I
knew he’d like how crispy the chicken had
turned out, and he’d be surprised that we
had fresh vegetables even though it was the
end of the week and shopping didn’t happen
until Saturday.

We all joined in saying
grace, then dug in. My sister ate quickly
and was the first to speak. “I’m all
finished with my homework, Dad. Can I watch
Gilligan’s Island now?” Dad had been deep
in thought, and was distracted by my
sister’s question. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Then he turned to me.
“Where’s the salad?”

“Salad?”

“Your mother
always made a fresh salad.” His frown smote
me where I sat.

There it was. Again.
Mother’s looming absence. From our table,
from our lives, from this earth. Her swift
illness and death had been a shock. I felt
inadequate as the newly appointed “chief
cook and bottle-washer” and I wondered if
I’d ever get the hang of it all. Just
trying to keep up with the laundry and
cooking made me realize how little I’d
appreciated all Mother had done for
us.

Now I’d forgotten
something. Just a little old salad, no big
deal. But it sure seemed to make Dad mad.
When I looked into his eyes, I was surprised
to see that the gruff words were just a
cover … he was sad. He tried to hide it,
but his sadness poured out into the room and
over to me. He stood abruptly and put on
his jacket. “I wasn’t really hungry, and
anyway, my meeting starts soon. I have to
get going. Clean up this kitchen and finish
your homework, young lady. Be sure your
sister is in bed on time, and I don’t want
to see your reading light on when I come
home.” He was out the door before I could
say anything.

Tires squealed, and
with brimming eyes, my little sister started
to clear the table. I went over to the
window and carefully lifted one slat of the
blinds. Dad’s car was idling at the end of
the drive. He didn’t back out onto the
street; instead I saw him put the car in
park and let his face fall forward into his
cupped hands.

I gulped as I saw his
shoulders heave, and I fished in my pocket
for a hankie. When I lifted it to my nose,
the light scent of Mother’s perfume
drifted to me. A tenderness for the
beleaguered man sitting out in our driveway
surged through me. When he finally drove
off, I took a deep breath and returned to
the kitchen where my little sister stood by
the sink with a towel in her hand.

In an effort to cheer
ourselves up, we started singing silly songs
in rounds. We could never stay with our
parts, and ended up giggling and swatting
each other with wet dishtowels. Soon all
was in order, and I could hear the wall
clock tick as we climbed the stairs for
bed.

I quickly switched off
my reading light when I heard Dad’s car in
the drive, and pretended to be asleep when
he ducked his head in to check on me. It
surprised me when I felt him sit down and touch
my shoulder.

“It’s ok, Dad. There’s
a plate of dinner waiting in the fridge for
you. We’ll be alright, Dad. Really. We
will.”

Dad’s head was haloed
by the swath of light coming from the hall,
and I couldn’t see his face. Without a
word I reached out and took his rough hand
in mine. I was rewarded with a gentle
squeeze. He nodded his head ever so
slightly, and with a sigh, stood up.

“Yes we will, Honey.
Yes we will.”

Maryjo Faith
Morgan (MaryjoFaithMorgan@hotmail.com
) is a freelance writer living in Loveland,
Colorado. Deeply bonded, she and her sister
Lynda remain very close despite busy lives
and the 1500 miles that separate them. They
share telephone visits several times a
week.